Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Wasn't There

"Look out!" someone yelled. Turning to check the danger, Qwilleran straightened up and struck his head on the stone lintel above. The blow knocked him to his knees, and he saw blinding flashes of light and heard distant screams and calls for help. Next he was being seated on a bench, and Melinda was checking his pulse and lifting his eyelids, all the while asking questions: "Do you know your name? What day is it?... Do you know where you are?" At this point, Qwilleran was feeling more anger than pain, and he snapped, "Shakespeare wrote Macbeth. Moose County is north of the equator.

Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin. And if you don't mind, I'd like to go outside and sit in the bus while you people finish your sightseeing and buy your postcards." Dwight Somers volunteered to go with him.

"I've had enough castle for one day," Qwilleran told him.

"Same here. How did they exist in that damp, gloomy environment?" "They didn't. If they weren't murdered in their twenties, they died of pneumonia in their thirties." "I've been wanting to ask you, Qwill: Have you done any theatre?" "Only in college. At one time I was planning to be an actor, until a wise professor steered me into journalism, and I must admit that a little acting experience doesn't hurt in my profession." "I was sure you had training. You have a very good voice. I wish you'd take a role in Macbeth." "What did you have in mind for me?" Qwilleran asked.

"Banquo's ghost? One of the three witches? Lady Macbeth?" "You're not too far off base. In Shakespeare's time she was played by an actor in drag, but he didn't have a moustache. How about doing Macduff? He has a couple of great scenes, and I don't think the guy we've cast is going to work out." "That's a sizable part," Qwilleran objected.

"It would be tough to learn lines after so many years away from the stage... No, Dwight, I'd better stick to my role as theatre reviewer for the paper. Have you cast Lady Macbeth?" "Yes, I gave the role to Melinda. She has a certain quality for Lady Macbeth. She brought a script with her on the trip, and she's been working on her lines." Members of the party were emerging from the castle and sauntering across the drawbridge.

"Melinda's an interesting woman," Dwight went on. He paused, waiting for an affirmative comment. When none was forthcoming, he said, "We both have apartments at Indian Village, and I've been seeing her quite often but not getting very far." There was another pause.

"I'm getting the impression I might be trespassing on your territory." "No problem," Qwilleran assured him.

"This is the first time I've lived in a town as small as Pickax, and I don't want to violate any codes." "No problem," Qwilleran said. When the group started climbing into the bus, everyone expressed concern about his condition, but Melinda examined the bump on his head and announced there was no bleeding.

Their destination that night was a picturesque inn converted from a bothy, with numerous additions, confusing levels, and angled hallways.

The beds were comfortable, however, and the furnishings were engagingly old, with a homey clutter of doilies, knickknacks, vases of heather, baskets of fruit, and the ubiquitous tea-maker. Coils of rope were provided under the windows for escape in case of fire. The Bonnie Scots tourists were booked for two nights, and Irma had promised them a free day, absolutely unstructured, after several days of hurtling around in the bus. They could enjoy the luxury of unpacking their luggage, putting their belongings away in bureau drawers, and hanging clothes in the wardrobes that served as closets. After a dinner of sheep's head broth, rabbit casserole, and clootie dumplings, Qwilleran excused himself, saying he had a headache and wished to retire early, although the chief reason was a desire to get away from his fellow travelers. From the main hall he went up half a flight of stairs, turned left into a narrow passage, then to the right and three steps down, through a glass door and up a ramp, and finally to the left, where he bumped into a bewildered Grace Utley, clutching her necklace in panic.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"It isn't hard to do." "I took the wrong turn somewhere, dear heart," she said.

"We're in Number Eight." "Then you should be in the other wing. Follow me." After he had conducted her to the hallway leading to Number Eight, she seemed reluctant to let him go.

"Mr. Qwilleran," she began in her grating voice, "I shouldn't mention this, but... do you think Ms. Hasselrich is carrying on with that bus driver?" "What do you mean by carrying on?" he asked.

"It's the way she looks at him, and they have secret conversations in a foreign language. Last night, when I looked out my window, I could see them on the moor in the moonlight... yes!" "Could have been ghosts," he said archly.

"They haunt the moors all the time. Pay no attention, Mrs. Utley." "Please call me Grace," she said.

"How do you feel after your accident, dear heart?" "Just a slight headache. I'm retiring early." Other women in the group had raised eyebrows over Irma's secret nightlife, but Lyle had said, "The woman works sixteen hours a day! She's entitled to some R and R, and ours not to question where or with whom." Qwilleran returned to his room and changed into the red pajamas that Polly had given him for a Valentine, hoping for a few hours of solitude. The others were sipping Drambuie in front of the fire, or playing cards, or watching TV in the keeping room. Lounging in a passably comfortable chair, he began to dictate the day's experiences into his tape recorder: "Today we visited the island where Macbeth was buried in 1057..." He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Now, who the devil is that?" he muttered. He hoped it was not Grace Utley. Worse yet, it was Melinda.

Four

"How do you feel, lover?" Melinda asked as she stood in the passage outside Qwilleran's room.

"You seemed rather quiet during dinner." "After conversing with the same crowd for five days, I'm running out of things to say and also the patience to listen," he said.

"May I come in? I want to check your pulse and temperature. Sit down over there, please." She entered in a cloud of scent that had enchanted him three years ago; now it seemed too sweet, too musky. She inserted a thermometer in his mouth, counted his pulse, raised his eyelids, and looked at his eyeballs.

"You're still legally alive," she said as she drew a flask from her official black bag.

"Would you like a little nip for medicinal purposes?" "You've forgotten I can't have alcohol, Melinda." "Where's your tea-maker? We'll have a nice cup of tea, as they say over here." She filled the pot with water from the bathroom tap.

"How do you like the tour so far?" "There's too much of everything. Too much food, too much conversation, too much bus travel, too many tourists." Melinda sauntered around the room in familiar fashion.

"Your room looks comfortable. The doubles are better than the singles.

I'm at the end of the hall in Number Nine--for your future reference -comandthe furnishings give me gastro-intestinal burbulence. I have a wonderful view of the loch, though. Perhaps Arch would like to exchange with me," she said with a mischievous glance.

"Does anyone know the name of this loch? They all look alike to me," said Qwilleran, an expert at ignoring hints.

"Well, tell me about you, Qwill. What have you been doing for the last three years?" "Sometimes I wonder. The years speed by." He was in no mood to socialize or particularize.

"Apparently you're not married yet." "It's fairly well accepted in Moose County that I'm not suitable grist for the matrimonial mill." Melinda poured two cups of tea and splashed something from the flask into her own cup.

"I was hoping we could pick up where we left off." "I'll say it again, what I've said before, Melinda. You belong with a man of your own age-your own generation." "I like older men." "And I like older women," he said with brutal candor.